


Downslide

by GunpowderFlaw



Category: Eminem (Musician), Machine Gun Kelly (Musician), Music RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Domestic, Feelings, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, They’ve got problems, discussions of going public, fixing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26923354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GunpowderFlaw/pseuds/GunpowderFlaw
Summary: Marshall goes to visit Colson in LA.Or a fic in which these two fuck things up and then fix them.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Eminem
Comments: 19
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to @CosmicBash who asked for more smut(which helped build my smut-confidence) and everyone that left kudos and comments to my last fic! I wouldn’t feel confident posting more if not for the awesome support 🖤  
> I love writing about these two because they can have the best dynamic in just about everything, i have two more fics planned and hope I can finish them before the year ends(yeah I write so slow Kells’ll probably make a whole new album before I post anything else)

Seeing the brunette at LAX, all by himself, could be a rare sighting. Colson thinks before the other spots him in the small group of people. Marshall takes several careful peeks from under the shadows of his gray hoodie, one hand tightly clutching his suitcase handle as he walks toward the arrival gate. The relief after locating the taller blond is visible on Marshall’s face, after which he keeps his head down and strides past the strolling crowd.

When the brunette finally stops in front of him, Colson curls forward a bit to give the other man a hug, and he frowns when Marshall pushes him off.

“We should get going, there’s probably paparazzi somewhere.” Marshall’s voice is low, fingers finding purchase on the taller man’s wrist, tugging, urging him to get going.

“I checked before coming in, there weren’t.” He assures the other. “And even if people saw us, what could they possibly do? Stop listening to your music?”

“Damn it Kelly, I just don’t think it’s any of their business!” Marshall hisses, hand retreating to take hold of the suitcase handle again. The older man always refers to the blond as Kelly in situations like this - where he feels threatened by the perils of so-called public indecency. Impatience laced with a dash of insecurity seeps out of his voice, “now can we go?”

“Right.” Colson answers dryly, putting one arm around the other to direct them out of the building and toward his car. Marshall attempts to shake his arm off without drawing too much attention, but to no avail.

“Is this really necessary?” The brunette sounds frustrated.

“I missed you, you asshole.” Colson mutters, “as much as I’d like to respect your ‘need-to-know’ rule of our relationship, I also am trying really hard to not kiss you right here and fuck it all up.”

“Alright.” The older man compromises, “let’s just hurry up.”

When finally making it to Colson’s car, there is still no sign of any person with cameras. Marshall sighs as the blond offers to help him with the suitcase, “can you be more inconspicuous?”

“What? Relax dude, I’m only putting your stuff in the trunk.” Colson can spot the other’s lips thinning as the brunette lifts his bearded chin a little to gesture at his Aston Martin.

“I mean your car.”

“It’s okay, come on, get in before anyone sees you.” He says, opening the driver’s side door.

“Are you being dumb on purpose, or is it like a hidden talent or something?” Marshall’s irritated tone hangs in the air for a moment after he climbs in the passenger seat and shuts the door.

Not bothering with an answer, Colson gets himself behind the wheel, then reaches out to grab the older man’s jaw and drag him into a kiss. They part half a minute later, both breathing a little more heavily than before.

“Satisfied?” Marshall gives him a half-hearted smile.

“Not even close.” He sits back to start the car, hand coming up to rub the tender skin around his mouth. Marshall’s beard has never ceased to feel weird against his smooth chin, the scratchy sensation makes every time feel like their first.

As they ease into this relationship and grow more comfortable with each other, with the ebbing aftermath of their feud, the looming anxiety of keeping it a secret recedes. Yet it seems that the feeling is not mutual. Whenever Marshall moves his ass out of his hole in Detroit and gets it to Los Angeles, he finds a ‘proper’ reason, and within the pool of his rationalized motives a certain lanky blond is not included. That irritates Colson more than he’d like to admit. He’s not the type to keep secrets, and he sucks even more at lying about it, especially when the relationship is going steadily and neither of them shows signs of backing out.

The air feels crispy inside the vehicle as AC automatically starts working, the Aston slides beautifully over the lanes, and in its rearview mirror those terminals are shrinking. Silence permeates the sleek air, like spilled ink in water. Colson spares a look at the older man, who is now looking out the slightly tinted window with an elbow propped up and a hand on his bearded chin.

“I’ll get some burgers on the way, anything you want?” He asks with feigned cheerfulness, still recovering from his prior contemplation.

Marshall turns and gives him a smile, looking content cooped up in his hoodie. “I’ll have what you have.”

“For real?” The last sliver of his reflection that has been muddling his mood vanishes, surprised by Marshall’s uncommon indulgence. “I remember you once said you are never having those shit again?”

“Yeah.” The brunette shifts in his seat, shoving his hands into the gray hoodie’s pockets. “What? Can’t a man miss the times when he was broke and sat at Burger King the whole afternoon with one drink?”

“You are fucking with me.” He observes, “wait. Are you fucking with me? Sometimes I really can’t tell if you are joking or being honest. Or both. Damn dude, this poker face of yours...” He stops to take in a lungful of air.

“You are cute blabbering.” The other states as the blond quickly shuts his opening mouth and takes another glance at Marshall, “and I am having that burger, Col.” He blinks, batting his eye lashes in a purposeful manner.

“Aw fuck. Talking about being cute.” Colson bites out. "You are fucking obnoxious."

“Shut it, we both know you like it."

There's a big grin on Colson's face as he focuses his eyes back on the traffic, his lack of a response declaring acquiescence. "Music?" This time the cheerfulness is no longer factitious.

Marshall shifts again and turns on the radio, his hand taking a detour to run fingers up the younger man's forearm playfully, which, results in a sharp inhale from the blond.

"Jesus, you might wanna be careful with that if you don't want me to crash this babe." He rolls his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

"Quit calling your car pet names! It's just a car." The older rapper's probably wetting his lips again, Colson thinks. At least half the times Marshall makes a smartass remark he does something involving his lips.

"What, you jealous?" He flashes his teeth, "I can call you all kinds of pet names if that's what you like."

"Oh come on, you kno-" Marshall's annoyed voice is suddenly cut off as his eyes snap to the radio, glaring, before he reaches out to turn it off.

"Hey!" He protests, left hand steadying the steering wheel while his right hand blindly feels down the buttons to turn the radio back on. "What was they playing?"

Before he could finish the sentence, he recognizes it, there's no mistaking this beat topped with horrible lyrics. Which is undoubtedly the very thing that caused the older rapper's apprehension. He feels a fit of laughter bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. It’s not until the other's nearly yelling at him to watch the road does he realize that he has been laughing violently to the point of curling in on himself that they're no longer in the same lane.

"Fuck, you afraid of Lil Pump?" He can feel a tear crawling down his right cheek, its track messed up by the grimace on his face. The droplet leaves a thin wet trail leading down from the outer corner of his eye, showcasing its owner's unbridled amusement.

"At least I'm not getting weepy about it." Counters the brunette.

"Fuck you." He says, tone soft.

"Later." A muted chuckle escapes the older man’s mouth.

“You better not forget that.” He laughs, and then after some time spent in the constant sound of wind being broken by the car and the on going music, Colson pulls up at an In-N-Out. Time seems to slide by faster whenever he’s with the other, despite that they often squabble, everything always works out somehow. The thought is like a shot of confidence to Colson’s small pessimistic idea of never being able to reveal their relationship to the public.

However, this rumination of his deems himself unaware of their surroundings. When his peripheral registers the incoming cameras, it’s too late to stop them taking the first photo. Luckily only the window on his side is down, and being the vigilant bastard he is, Marshall has already hidden himself under his hoodie.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” One of the cameraman asks.

Colson gives out a gentle snort, “that’s the story for another time.”

“Come on man, give us something!” 

“Believe me, I want to tell you too.” Cars are forming a line behind them, he starts rolling up the window, “just not now.” He says over the rising tinted glass before driving off to the pick-up window.

“Next time huh?” Marshall sits back up a bit from his crouching position.

“That is if you are okay with us going public.”

“Public or not, the fact that I’m with you wouldn’t change.” Marshall says, “except that now we don’t have to deal with all the media attention going public would’ve attracted.”

“I’d choose media attention over zero freedom anytime.” He takes their food and sets the bag on Marshall’s lap. “Not being able to go out with you blows.”

“I don’t really go out.”

“Pete doesn’t either, but people still know we are close.” He sticks out his tongue, expression dramatic. “Duh.”

Turning up the volume of the radio, the older man sits back as they spend the rest of the drive in the continuous flow of music.

*

Both having skipped breakfast, they wolf down the burgers while they are still in the car parked in Colson’s driveway. Chewing, his mind jumps to the consequences of disclosing their relationship - some would probably call him a faggot and laugh at him for rolling over and opening his legs for the great Eminem, but it's not difficult to acknowledge that those people would just hate him no matter what he does. Although deep down the statements he has made about not caring about what people think of him are spurious, he is not stupid to the point of believing there's still something to prove to those people.

What baffles him is Marshall's opposition, as it seems that the man has never really given a fuck about anything, including the excessive media attention. Even if being interrogated in interviews on his private live, Eminem’s OG enough to refuse to answer certain questions, and in the worst case scenario, being on the receiving end of homophobia is nothing new to Marshall.

"What's on your mind?" The sentence is almost a whisper, its edges ghosting over Colson's earlobe.

"Um, nothing, I just drifted off."

“Yeah.” The other sounds unfazed by his prevarication, “I think I just ran out of my quota for fast food this year.”

“Really? That must suck ass because I’m planning on having pizza tomorrow.”

“For real though, you should start eating healthier food.”

“Ain’t edible cannabis veggie too?”He asks deliberately.

The older rapper pauses, who appears to be actually mulling it over. He pulls Colson into a kiss that tastes distinctly like fries before responding, “if it could get you to smoke less, I’d settle for that. For now.”

They get off the car with empty takeout bags, and the blond rushes toward the other who has been vigilantly scanning around for signs of suspicious personnel. He drapes himself over the shorter man, slips a hand into Marshall’s back pocket and squeezes the flesh underneath. The brunette tenses up immediately, like a deer in headlights, and this close Colson can feel the other's breath get caught in his windpipe. For a flickering second dread wells up inside the blond as the shorter man stands there, as though petrified, unresponsive.

"Jesus Christ Kelly, you mind being a little more careful next time?" Marshall finally speaks, his voice unfaltering as if what just happened was all in Colson's head.

"While you are like crazy famous and people be flooding your doorstep, I'm not there yet, old man. So relax." He says, "and like I said, what's the worst that could happen? People calling us slurs? I know you don't give a fuck about that shit."

Marshall stays unsettlingly quiet, and after a few cautious glimpses at their surroundings, a reluctant shrug and an arm around his waist are what Colson gets. He wets his lips, "alright. Take your time, we can talk about it when you're ready. I guess I was pushing you a little too hard."

"You really are all about 'talk about it', huh?" Marshall tightens his arm as he walks both of them toward the door while the taller man is still leaning heavily against him, they stumble on the doorsteps and then fumble to pull out the keys stuck in Colson's skinny jeans' front pocket.

As the door clicks shut behind them, Marshall hooks his free arm around the back of Colson’s knees and lifts him up. Taken by surprise, he yelps, flapping his legs and nearly knocking the other down in the process. “Okay I get that you don’t wanna talk! Now put me down!”

“Don’t worry.” Marshall says, “I’m just keeping my promise. So where do you wanna get plowed?”

“In bed as long as you haven’t broken your back by then.” He teases as the brunette begins to sound breathless halfway through the hall.

Marshall snorts, “i’m not that old, and if I broke—”

“If you make one Brokeback Mountain reference, I’ll kill you.”

“Okay.” Marshall chokes out, “why the fuck are all of your bedrooms on the second floor?”

“Just put me down! Your...” Colson stops, in search of a proper word. “...bony arms are cutting me in half - three parts!” And before he can prepare himself he is suddenly dropped, his limbs scrambling to support the body. “You just gotta be an ass.” He steps on one stair, towering over the other with the extra couple inches.

“You asked me to put you down.” Marshall crosses his arms, not intimidated in the slightest and looking innocent like a newborn bunny. “And I did.”

Deep down, Colson enjoys their banter maybe a bit too much that he imagines himself appearing desperate sometimes, but he knows that Marshall has been putting up with a lot of his shit as well. He smokes too much weed and gets drunk several times a week, and then harasses the living hell out of the older rapper in the middle of the night. He does stupid things and hurts himself, makes Marshall the victim of his mood swings. So in this sense the least Marshall deserves is to tease him now and then. Which he knows is also the older man’s unique, twisted little way of showing affection.

Sighing, Colson runs a hand through his hair as an idea forms in his head. Although he’d like to give Marshall a chance to be an obnoxious brat, he’s too horny right now to play along. Looking down, he grins at the other with a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, his hands proceeding to take off the shirt he’s wearing. The soft fabric is quickly discarded onto the handrail. “If you’re not inside me in the next 15 minutes, I’m calling that girl who has been texting me for months.” The brunette squints, clearly taking it as a challenge. At this point he understands Marshall’s jealousy ass well enough that it’s becoming beyond easy to push the right buttons.

“Oh I’d like to see you try.” Stepping closer, Marshall’s hands come to rest against his hips before pressing down hard to elicit a gasp. “And goddamn, before you I’ve only seen pornstars with spider webs tatted around their nipples.” With Marshall still below the first step, the hot breaths land directly on his chest, making him quiver. Overwhelmed by the growing surge of lust, the thought of defending his tattoos quickly slips to the back of his mind.

He hurries upstairs, the rushed footsteps behind assuring him Marshall’s interest. Barging into his bedroom, he goes straight for the nightstand and grabs the bottle of lube before tossing it to Marshall, who’s staring at him with hungry eyes. While the brunette is fumbling with the unopened lube bottle, Colson peels his jeans off and hops in bed, embarrassingly half hard already. He feels that he’s going to explode if the other so much as to stall one more second.

Good news is Marshall has already freed himself from the hoodie and the lube bottle pops open the same time Colson spreads his thighs. Marshall slots into the place between them and wastes no time kissing the blond breathless, the soft fabric of his pants dragging over Colson’s exposed cock, knocking out a keen exhale from the younger man.

Marshall pulls back to squeeze some lube onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm the liquid up. Caught up in a thick whirl of desire, Colson chases the other’s plush lips, accidentally getting lube smeared onto his stomach from the other’s fingers. Marshall huffs.

“If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to get inside of you in time. And it’s only gonna be your fault.” The older rapper threatens.

He lies back pliantly, letting the other press his legs down further, wet fingers probing and circling his entrance before pushing in. “Fuck.” He’s a little too tight from living like a monk for the last month without Marshall here, and the pressure in his hole is both familiar and strange that for a moment he can’t discriminate pain from pleasure. Maybe they are the same thing, he thinks absentmindedly, given all the tattoos he has and how much he enjoyed the process.

Shortly after getting used to the shallow thrusts, three fingers breach his loosened hole, opening his ass up as he squirms, moans and curses unabashedly into thin air. After which Marshall is trailing down his body to suck hickeys onto his smooth inner thighs, the beard ticklish against his sensitive skin. His subconscious attempt at closing his legs in responding to the sensation is stemmed by Marshall’s bruising grip on his svelte legs. With a long lap from the bottom to the tip of his cock, he cries out, eyes rolling back until he’s certain there are white dots dancing behind his eyelids.

“That’s ten minutes.” Marshall breathes, pushing down the sweatpants still clinging to his hips, his hardened cock springing out with the movement. “On your hands and knees.”

He does what he’s told, presenting his ass to the other as Marshall rubs the slicked head over his relaxed hole and a hand comes to press between his shoulder blades, pushing his face down into a pillow. His dick aches with how long it has gone unattended, hanging heavily between his legs and not getting enough stimulation from the linen because of his uplifted ass.

Slowly, Marshall pushes all the way in, cock dragging over his prostate. A whine punched out of his windpipe gets muffled by the pillow, the muted pink colored sheets bunching up under his fists. All the coherent thoughts elope from his head as Marshall begins to snap his hips, attacking the blond’s prostate and Colson can feel his whole body trembling, with several minutes’ of repeating the movement he can feel pleasure filling him to the brink of overflowing and completely frying his brain. At this point he can’t tell where the moans are coming from anymore, the only thing he’s able to focus on is the way the other slams in and how his whole body feel like jelly with each jab at the bundle of nerves inside him.

It’s difficult to tell exactly how long has passed before the older man is pulling out, but Colson’s leaking cock and shaky legs are surely evidence of the smashing he has received. With the other’s retreat he pushed himself up with his arms, a confused whine low at the bottom of his nasal passage. There are wet spots on the pillowcase, either from drooling or crying, and Colson stares at them with a mixture of arousal and chagrin.

The mattress dips as a tattooed arm shoots across his slender waist and pulls him onto his side as Marshall snuggles behind him. With the change in position, his head again lands softly onto the soggy pillow, neck resting on Marshall’s other arm. Despite being aware of the brunette’s fixation on manhandling him in bed, a curious sound still manages to spill out of him when a hand tightens around his neck, curbing the free flow of air.

“Shh.” Marshall shushes while kicking his legs apart with a knee, holding them open and pushing back into him. The arm on his waist slides downward, hand wandering down to stroke his dick. Teeth clenching, he flounders weakly within the older man’s grip as Marshall starts to fuck him again. With him on his side, one leg curled and in the air, the other is able to push even deeper inside, and he feels like losing his sensible self for good as the thrusts become harder and faster. 

The bed-frame creaks in sync with a squelching sound and his broken groans, which are cut short by the hand tightening around his neck. He lets out another desperate whimper as his legs shake, balls tightening while the other’s jerking him off and fucking his brains out, and the lack of oxygen makes him feel like he’s high again - his head in the clouds, climax rises like a tide running up the seashore. His hands shoot up to hold onto Marshall’s wrist on his neck, undecided as to whether pull it away or press it down even harder. 

A prickling sensation from Marshall’s beard races down his spine as the brunette leaves a string of kisses between his shoulder blades, the contact gentle, creating a sharp contrast to the unrelenting thrusts. He can feel his body’s attempts at clenching around the cock that has been shoved into him, but its hard and feels thick so that every time his hole tries to clamp down on it, the hard jab at his prostate sucks away all the energy he has mustered up to come. It is as if he is hanging on the edge forever, the moment prolonged to infinity as he chases release while his head gets fuzzier and dizzier. Petty noises leak out of him as he struggles in the sea of overwhelming pleasure.

“You are getting more and more like a girl,” Marshall’s voice is hoarse and distant, “just listen to those pretty noises you make, it’s impossible not to pop a boner from only hearing them.”

When climax hits he can’t even feel it, his whole body shakes violently like he’s being electrocuted. His dick shoots three times, weakly spitting out cum before Marshall’s hand on his neck relaxes, and the sudden influx of oxygen almost has a texture akin to overstimulation. He gulps down air like a dying fish, ass still clamping down on nothing when the other has already pulled out. Several more convulses later, he feels the older man’s cum leaking out of his hole and sliding down the backside of his thigh. 

“Shit. I hope there won’t be handprint on my neck tomorrow.” He says, turning around to face the brunette.

Marshall blinks, looking lost from his own orgasm before he schools his expression and nestles closer to kiss the younger man’s neck. “See, I just kissed it better.”

He laughs, “dude, it was really hot, but can you ask me next time if you are gonna, you know, choke me?”

“Okay.” Marshall mumbles, ducking his eyes, “sorry I was being fucking stupid.”

“Hey, I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy that, it’s just, a heads up would be great.” He kisses Marshall - who still has an appalled look on his face - lightly on the forehead. 

The older man touches the place on his forehead where Colson’s lips have been, and nods. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Um, I don’t have anything planned out, so maybe we could just stay at home?” 

“Sure.” Marshall props himself up on one elbow, the other hand rubbing small, apologetic circles over the blond’s abused neck. The fingertips cooling against his flushed skin.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” He says, stopping the older man’s movement, “that was the best sex I’ve had in months.”

“Yeah, me too.” Marshall confesses, “I had been thinking about that for a while.”

“You kinky bastard.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t want me here.” Marshall ruffles his hair. “It’s getting too long... I mean it’s cute, but I wasn’t joking when I said you look girly.”

He hums, “I like it, and I don’t give a fuck what others think.”

“Some crazy fans of mine are still going after you, and I saw someone talking shit about your looks the other day.” 

“I’m used to them by now.” He titters, “and imagine their faces if they knew we are banging each other.”

“And that’s your reason for wanting people to know our relationship?” The older rapper wets his lips.

“You know that’s only a bonus.” He sits up, wiping their drying cum onto the sheets. “Now. Shower first, then we need to change everything on this bed.”

Marshall obeys, following him into the bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so first off, it has taken me way too long for a chapter with this low degree of decency, damn I write slow  
> And second, I did finish writing this a while ago but couldn’t bring myself to read it again because well, I just don’t like reading my own fics  
> That being said, enjoy (if you are willing to suffer)!

The days stretch long when Marshall’s in the same house with him. He can’t smoke as much weed as he usually does, and the limited amount of alcohol he is having is far from enough to numb his sensitivity to the passing of time. Being sober all the time makes everyday feel awfully clear and slow, and a week later it starts to take a toll on his ability to write.

His notebook lies open on the table in front of him, the morning sunlight casting sharp edged shadows onto its pages, and there's not even one single word on the spotless paper. A comfortable, almost fuzzy blank fills his mind, leaving no strings of thought for him to cling onto. He can register every little movement outside the window, either it's a branch flowing in the breeze or the quick stirring of air when insects fly by. The steam rising from his mug takes some kind of shape, but he quickly loses grasp of that thought as well. He tries to recall the feeling of pain, the despair and the flicker of hope he experienced when he was living in the run down apartment in Cleveland. Yet the feeling slinks away before he's able to get a hold, like the high from watered-down booze. He rubs his eyes before taking the mug to sip on his coffee.

Giving up, he is flipping through the pages of his notebook when the line he wrote an album ago shoots into view. He stares at the crooked handwriting, taking in the loud and clear message the words convey. How do people break away from this? He thinks, the need for pain in order to keep writing coincides with the devoid of it as life gets better, and now even his love life is impeccable. He feels like a hypocrite with all the self-inflicted, manmade “misery”.

It revokes a distinct feeling of powerlessness. With that he stands, striding past the guitar leaning against the side wall, as he goes directly to the stash of shrooms he put away before Marshall’s visit. “You better work.” He mutters, taking two pieces with the now tepid coffee before falling back down on his cushioned chair, waiting for it to kick in.

The clock on his wall points half past nine, by which he can tell the older rapper is probably working out somewhere downstairs. Everyday he wakes up to the empty half of his bed to find the other trying less demanding work out options due to a lack of equipment in Colson’s house. He wonders how Marshall can stand the simple day-to-day life without any form of substances to numb himself from time to time.

Gradually, the familiar sensation starts bubbling up from his stomach, as he feels the limitations of his perception of reality vanishing, and soon strange thoughts begin to occupy his mind, dictating the way he looks at objects around him. The upcoming trance takes shape as he finds himself in front of a translucent but somehow holographic steel door, and there seems to be miniatures of shooting stars behind it. The door opens with one gentle push, the blue tinged void behind it welcomes him in a way that’s almost physical, encasing him within its warm embrace. He walks past the door frame, ignoring the weird wooden object with strings on its neck that lies at his feet.

At first, he feels happy. His mood lightens as he observes the strange landscape around him. What unfolds before him is like a weirdly put together mini-universe, vast and distant, indifferent yet welcoming. Everything looks new and different - different from what he has been seeing for the past week. 

But then, a presence, something pressing and ominous emerges, pops into existence right behind him. This sudden feeling of being chased and hunted down gets him moving. In seconds he finds himself outside - although he doesn’t remember going through doors or thresholds - on a balcony of sorts, and there’s a girl - short, but sturdy - leaning against the rusty handrail. She’s wearing a white dress, and there’s dirt dotted all over the smooth fabric. 

She says something to him without opening her mouth. Colson gets the message nonetheless, he nods, “Just get behind it, right?” Behind what? A small voice at the back of his mind asks, but his body seems to know the answer already as he slowly moves toward the fringes of sharp concrete floor. 

Suddenly he stops, one step shy of reaching the edge as the fear of being chased resurfaces, but this time his mind dwells on the entirely opposite response. Keep running won’t make the hatred go away, he ponders, as the same small voice rings again somewhere in the back of his skull, why is it hatred? Wasn’t the thing hunting you a person in this hallucination? He shakes his head, as if negating the question. 

“It’s my notoriety.” He murmurs, feeling the effect of shrooms pushing over the peak and starts waning.

Realizing that he still cares about people’s opinions pains Colson. All of the songs he has made now look like petty attempts at proving himself better than what they say about him in those demeaning comments, especially Em’s diss tracks. Despite the ironic fact that they now share the same bed, it seems acknowledgements from the older man are never enough. And that’s something he can never put into words or lyrics as it is both too private to share and would make him look weak, which is the very thing he has been avoiding ever since the feud. He grabs the handrail, which now awfully looks like a windowsill as things around him become less surreal.

What if Marshall cares too? Colson says he doesn’t care, acts like he doesn’t care, but at the end of the day, he does, and maybe a little too much. That could also be the case for Marshall, he thinks miserably. Is that the reason he doesn’t want people to know about them? 

A nondescript feeling attacks him, maybe it’s fear of an eternal loneliness, or regret that things are never going to go back to what they used to be. This feeling is then exacerbated by the pitiful realization that his pride will never allow him to grovel for Marshall’s, or anyone else’s constant company and respect.

The amorphous feeling quickly evolves into a strong hatred directed at himself, it’s easier to blame someone than admitting and facing his powerlessness.

As if being pulled together by innumerable invisible strings, his face scrunches up, looking like that when someone is full on wailing. But no sound comes out of him, his eyes are so dry the skin around them almost feels itchy.

“Hey Colson I’ve been cooking and—” Marshall’s voice suddenly comes to a halt.

Thinking that this Marshall must be in his head too, just like the girl, Colson doesn’t bother seeking out the source of that voice. Instead, he looks down, squinting his sensitive eyes as he sinks back into that wave of sentiment.

But this Marshall is nothing but stubborn, the blond can feel the other moving even with his back to the older man. After some rustling, the heat emitted by Marshall lands softly onto his back.

“Hey, Col-” Marshall’s voice is too soft and quiet, but also very real, the vibrations palpable compared to what his head could make up under the influence of shrooms. “Maybe we should get away from the windows, alright?”

Still coming down from the high, he looks down again, confused, then a part of his brain points out that he has been sitting on the windowsill with his legs hanging outside in the air.

He hums his agreement as he starts retreating into the room, in the process his right foot gets caught on the edge, he stumbles, body instinctively braced for impact.

Before anything happens, Marshall’s arm is already on his back, hoisting him up and his free hand rushes to take hold of Colson’s ankle that’s close to getting sprained. He flinches from the warmth of the other’s palm on his bare skin, letting the other lead him into the chair.

“Next time don’t forget to lock the windows, okay?” Marshall’s tone remains gentle, “besides, I’m not pushing you around in a wheelchair if shit happens for real.”

Although he knows Marshall is giving him a chance to change the subject and bury the embarrassing incidence, he can’t help but feeling upset at the indifference the gesture could be indicating.

“I still can’t write shit.” Wild-eyed, he spits, “some people say shit like ‘seeing light at the end of the tunnel’, but what if I like it in the tunnel? We all know that’s the only place I can write.” Deep down Colson knows it’s just him being petty and trying to get a reaction out of the other, but he’d settle for that if a fight is what he deserves.

“I don’t know what you are referring to.” All of a sudden, Marshall’s tone becomes defensive, and Colson’s heart aches for how quickly the other’s body language alters to a sort of closed-off rigidity. He hates it when Marshall refuses to share a moment of vulnerability, even when that vulnerability was bared on purpose. Marshall’s unwillingness alone is enough.

“YOU don’t know?” He puffs out an incredulous laugh, “have you ever written genuinely happy songs? Fuck no! People hate that stuff, because everybody’s addicted to pain and suffering!”

There’s a funny look on Marshall’s face as he goes on. “By the way you are really doing me a favor by keeping this -” he points at the brunette, then at himself, “whatever the fuck this is - a secret. So no worries, people are still worshipping you and-” he stops himself from saying anything about his own infamy, “...without knowing that you’re a fucking coward and scared shitless that I’ll be the taint to your reputation!” He doesn’t care about the logic in what he said anymore, he just needs to get some pressure off of his chest.

A morbid satisfaction blooms inside him as he spots the mixture of surprise, fury and sadness on Marshall’s face. He’s almost excited for the outburst that’s about to be directed at him, at the same time he feels disgusted, when did he become a loser who thinks so low of himself to the point of believing he deserves to be degraded by someone he cares about? 

Closing his eyes, Colson waits. But the only thing getting thrown in his direction is silence. He blinks, just in time to catch some infinitesimal movements of Marshall’s chest. The older rapper seems unsettlingly calm, if he could ignore the arrhythmic tabbing of fingers on the right side’s seam of the pants Marshall’s wearing.

“That’s what you think it is?” The sentence wavers a little at the end, despite the brunette’s effort at appearing collected and in control.

“You damn right I do.” Colson snaps.

“You stupid ass-” Marshall snatches his mug from the table and throws it at the opposite wall. With a loud bang it shatters to pieces, the cold coffee within splashing, leaving a dripping mess on the white paint, countless trails of the dark liquid being pulled downward by gravity.

He stands abruptly, stomping toward the corpse of a mug. “That’s my fucking favorite mug you fucking old piece of shit!” There are smaller pieces of the container digging into his socked feet as he gets closer, he winces involuntarily, but can’t bring himself to care. Crouching down, Colson picks up the biggest piece and stares at its sharp edge. A sort of sorrow-like feeling sneaks up on him, and the sharp edge in front of his eyes begins to blur. Obdurate, he keeps gazing at the coarse texture of ceramic, as if by staring at it hard enough he can will away tears welling up in his eyes. He tilts his head to steady a drop that's on the verge of falling in vain as more tears start pouring out, rolling down his face and finally, unable to fight gravity, they drop to the floor.

He still has his back to Marshall, who has remained silent at this farce so far, and a part of him is quick to cling onto the idea of the older man being gone already, just like the way Marshall portrays himself in his music, destructive and unredeemable.

A hand on his shoulder makes him jolt, but instead of turning around, he fixes his eyes on the drying brown stain, adamantly not showing the other more of his pathetic state of mind.

Marshall takes a breath, and before any words come out Colson already knows the fight is over. “Col, I’m sorry.” A quiet sigh escapes Marshall’s lips as the blond relaxes into his touch. “Now let’s get your feet checked.”

He wipes his eyes hastily with the back of his hand before muttering, “okay.” As he’s helped up and half-carried to the bathroom. It’s not too bad to walk on carpeted floor, but there are definitely small cuts all over his feet since he did spend quite a while on those sharp pieces.

He is put onto the lidded toilet as Marshall gets down on one knee in front of him, carefully taking off his bloodied socks and gently grabbing his ankle to inspect his feet. The warmth of his palm almost scorching against Colson's cooler skin.

“I’ll be fine.” Seeing the other’s knotted eyebrows, Colson instinctively says, even though he has no idea whether those cuts will easily heal.

Marshall eases his feet down, and gives a small peck on his right knee peeking out of the black ripped jeans. The spot tingling with electricity. “Good. No pieces are stuck in there.”

“Told you I’m okay.”

“Hey... do you remember the other day when we were talking about my crazy fans still going after you and shit?” Marshall asks as he starts cleaning the wounds.

“Yeah, why?” He hisses a little as pain climbs up his torso.

“I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out I’m with you... you know? Fuck, I don’t want you to get more hate from shitheads you don’t even know.”

He looks at Marshall, curious to find out where this is heading.

“And I’m afraid... fuck this is really stupid but...” Pale blue eyes meet his, “I don’t wanna lose you because of that.”

It struck him that Marshall is just as insecure as him, which is something often overlooked because of the tough guy act the older rapper puts on all the time, and it reminds Colson of one of the reasons why they got together in the first place. Both had perceived themselves impotent when it came to intimacy, yet both became irrevocably attracted to the other on their first meet. They somehow understand each other in ways none of their former lovers could, and every fight end up pulling them even closer than before.

Marshall is watching him intently when he leans in to kiss the brunette’s forehead. “I make a lot of stupid decisions, but I can assure you that one isn't.”

When Marshall doesn’t answer, he continues, “I know they are gonna be hating me and saying I don’t get affected by that would be a lie, but I ain't gonna blame you for it.”

“I know you won’t, you’re not that much a himbo after all.”

He rolls his eyes. “Then what are you hesitating for? You can always write those haters a diss track, or two.”

Marshall snorts, cheeks moved by the slightly up-turned corners of his mouth. “Right.” He rubs his beard as he thinks, soft lips pushed into an unconscious pout. “Damn, I don’t even know.”

“Don’t worry, Shrink Kells here is gonna help you work it all out.” He says as the other hums, still caught up in thoughts. “Do you mind?” He nudges Marshall’s chest with one knee, gesturing the other to finish bandaging his feet. “Or I won’t help you with that instrumental you made the other day.”

"Nice try." 

*

He calls Pete that night, to catch up, also to get some inside information on "being in a public relationship with a famous singer" situation. Some twenty minutes into the conversation, the topic inevitably shifts to mental health as Pete starts elaborating on how heavily the aftermath weighed on him and how his obsession with death worsened for a brief moment. 

"That's gnarly." He comments, the feeling of uncertainty in him creeping up, nearly overpowering the confidence he has managed to build up over the months.

"But lucky for you, people already fucking hate you!" His friend's dramatically raised voice comes through, distorted by the long distance transmission.

"Shit, you have a point." He runs a hand through his blond locks in relief, "I almost forgot there's a long line of people waiting to say 'fuck you' to my face. I’m so used to this shit." 

"I would recommend that you adopt the advice you gave me."

"What's that?"

"Fuck that shit, homie." Pete gives out a soft laugh, probably amused by the act of throwing Colson's words back at him.

He laughs too, muscles on his stomach contracting and pushing fits of air out of his lungs. "Damn I said that? I have no memory of it but that advice is hard. And I feel like Em has been doing that for forever!"

"Okay so serious stuff aside, what's he like? I'm genuinely, honestly, really curious." Pete doesn't sound as curious as he claims, "also... how do you guys decide who gets fucked every time?"

"Fuck off, dude." He bites out. "Oh wait, if you really wanna know I'm passing him the phone-"

"Fuck no! Yo you know what? I got this other thing that I gotta work on so I'll talk to you later-" 

He sighs, smiling. Pete is always a shitty liar. "Later then."

Just in time to catch the end of their conversation, Marshall saunters in the room with a glass of water. Rubbing his eyes, the brunette sets the glass down on the bedside table as he sits and shifts higher up the bed to rest his head on the blond's chest. Colson's wearing one of those old 'bad meets evil' T-shirt.

"Pete's officially scared of you now." Still scrolling on his phone, Colson says.

"What did you tell him?" The older man tenses and is answered with the other putting his phone down and winks at him with a sly grin.

To his triumph, Marshall groans and grudgingly changes the subject, "how's your feet though?"

"They don't hurt as long as I don't stand with them."

"So that's a 'not good'." Sitting up, Marshall crawls to the end of their bed and checks his feet while Colson gets a full view of the other's round backside clad in a thin layer of cotton pajamas. 

"At least the bleeding has stopped." The brunette observes. "Really tragic thing to happen to someone with a foot fetish."

"Speaking of that..." He grins as Marshall casts him a vigilant look, "can you wear some heels for me? Think of it as an apology for breaking my mug."

Blood rushes to the older man's cheeks, and even with the beard and the dim light Colson can spot a flush on the other's usually pale, smooth face. "Please?" Knowing how Marshall has zero resistance to it, Colson imitates the way his daughter does it. 

"Fuck it. But only this one time." Marshall pinches the bridge of his nose, ignoring the blond's excited "yeah" and smug expression.

"Mission accomplished, now I'm gonna go brush my teeth."

*

After turning down Marshall’s offer of carrying him to the bathroom sink, Colson gingerly sets his feet on the floor and presses down experimentally, getting himself acquainted with the feeling of pain. As someone who gets tattoos for desserts, a little bit of piercing pain is nothing he can’t handle.

The soft fibers of the carpet poke at his wounds as he shifts across the short distance, Marshall’s tangible stare burning at the nape of his neck. He closes the door behind him, cutting off the sweltering heat.

He quickly finishes brushing his teeth. When he's bending forward to spit out the orange flavored mouthwash, Colson sees it, a thin line of metallic luster under the warm tinged light inside the bathroom. At the corner of the countertop, between two bottles of hair products that he forgot to use is a razor blade. Carefully, he takes it out. Its edge sharp, shining softly as he stares at it. He doesn't remember putting the razor blade there. It must be from a friend that was here at the party he threw three weeks ago.

The constant thought of suicide Pete talked about suddenly breaches his mind, as his own fascination with death follows. It must be a beautiful thing, he concludes, fingers still lightly toying with the razor blade. He remembers seeing the dazzling crimson filling the toilet when his ex-girlfriend was on her period, and he awed at how a tiny human body could bleed so much yet at the same time remain so alive. He remembers the rusty taste when he broke his lip, a thin stream of warm blood trickling down his chin before he wiped it clean.

He shivers, mind snapping back to the dim bathroom. He tilts his head - a gesture of ridicule or reconciliation - and sees himself in the mirror. 

Colson puts down the razor as it clatters quietly.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end of your suffering, thanks for reading and see you in the next one?


End file.
